stuck
by onceuponacaptain
Summary: Drunken!Killian's ramblings, reveries, and ponderings on the Jolly Roger after he returns from his drinking session with the dwarves in the beginning of 3x10. Angsty Captainswan drabble, apologize for summary. Rated T for salty language.


**A/N: This will be just a quick drabble on what runs through Killian's mind before his bedtime, during 3x10 when he (I'm assuming?) goes back to the Jolly Roger after his drinking session with the dwarves and is lying in bed.**

**Feedback and prompts greatly appreciated :) "Studying" for finals so they boost my mood, prompts can be sent to my tumblr: as-you-wishlove**

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The wood on the ceiling of his quarters was beginning to rot, he noted offhandedly. He hadn't slept in this bed for what seemed like ages (it probably was, that is because really, when one has spent, what? over 300 years being alive, years pass by like seconds). The wood was crumbling now and the situation had probably started due to water damage (what water?), or from other some unfathomable reason that he didn't want to think about right now. (Possibly exhaustion, although it what a wonder it would be for that to occur.) For an enchanted ship with enchanted wood, he'd thought that perhaps the Jolly would pay mind to when it began to deteriorate; apparently, it was the opposite.

Perhaps his mind was just muddled with alcohol and thoughts of...something, _someone_ else.

It was quite amusing, he chuckled dryly, or at least he imagined his conscience did, how the ship reflected and conveyed his moods somewhat accurately. Perhaps it was just the alcohol's properties meddling with his head, poor fool he was.

All right, he would concede defeat. He would save himself self-pity because truly, it was quite a bit more than "accurately."

That centuries-old facade of "Captain Hook," although the name rang nonetheless true due to his ever-present hook (although sometimes, possibly, just maybe he aspired to get his hand back but was definitely not willing to show that he did, show that perhaps he wanted another life that wasn't exactly one of a swashbuckling buccaneer), was crumbling.

Bit by tumbling bit, he was crumbling just like the wood on his ceiling, falling deeper each and every moment he spent with he-with Swan. With Swan, not _Emma_. Fuck, the longer he tried to refer to her that way the more her real name stuck to him, like quicksand; the more he struggled with her and tried to come to terms with these..._things_ that he felt for her, the quicker and deeper he sunk.

He was too far gone, too lost with or without her to continue without a thought; he had come to a fork in the road he traveled. Despite the fact he had once previously thought that his only goal in life was to murder the Crocodile-Rumple, Mr. Gold now, in cold blood. Yet, though the desire remained he felt no need to pursue it, as if killing the man would only tear an even bigger, gaping hole in his already torn heart.

Gods, he didn't know _what _to do. Ironic, was it not? As was the fact that his thoughts (despite the fact that his brain should be, was supposed to be, gods, he _needed _it to be addled with alcohol as of this moment) kept running around in his head twice as much as he did when he was sober.

This...feeling of helplessness was an unusual situation for someone such as him. Damn it, how could he be expected to know what to do with these goddamn feelings? Not to mention the "irrelevant" fact that he had not truly or deeply felt any sensation excluding anger and devastation since Milah's death, the two feelings alternating so that they fueled his thirst for revenge.

Which was now permanently satisfied, thanks to her. Those bloody hazel eyes that ensnared him as a trap enslaves a rabbit, that held him in their clutches until he regained just enough power to look away. Gods, her _smile_, the way it lit up her eyes...he had not seen anything so beautiful since the last sunset he and Milah had watched together.

And it took his breath away, a rare feat only accomplished by one other woman.

For all his innuendos, he could no longer mask or hide or run from the irrevocable truth.

He, Killian Jones, was falling in love with Emma Swan.

Well, bloody fuck, being the wanker he was, he most likely already had been. How he had not recognized the feelings stirring within him sooner was a mystery to him, but he saw it in her before he saw it in herself. He could see himself in her eyes, that damn lovesick aura that floated around him when he was in close proximity with her. And he saw it in the way she recoiled subconsciously whenever he approached, whenever he tried to converse with her with at least the decency of a common human being.

He saw her fear and it was his before he knew it was. He absorbed her feelings and saw the remorse and desperation and hope that clouded her eyes every day she was in Neverland; it touched him like nothing had before, like a jolt to his soul that he had not even _known_ was possible, had not even known _existed_.

But damn her, damn the bloody buggering fucker, she kept running away. (Dully, he realized the alcohol was beginning to kick in.)

Why the _fuck_ would she not let him save her?

Oh. Well, there was the small consideration of Neal, and Henry, and _life_ and her just unwavering,_ unrelenting_ devotion in avoiding him. Fuck it, fuck his life,_fuck_ that undying streak of _hope_ that refused to even give out for a _second_ when Neal asked her out on a date, the persistent bugger that he was.

Screw him and the world and these fucked up feelings that _just_ would not stop.

Subconsciously, as if the realization was enough to shock him into action, he abruptly sat up in bed and once again sat back down.

The real bloody problem was, he came to terms with it now, that he just could not and would not live with her or without her.

Of course he had to live with her, Storybrooke was small, he would see her, he had no other fucking option so he was left to try and maybe fuck Tink or Ruby or some other woman who would fall for his attraction and charms, but he did not want that life anymore. He had no longing for it, because he knew how much disrespect people (well, mostly Em-_Swan_ and her family but everyone else as well) held for men who held too much pride and lived only for the joy making young girls pregnant. He could not stand for it and he would not any longer. Although it was a drunk resolution so who knew how much truth it contained?

But he could not live with seeing her, could not stand for seeing her and Neal live happily ever after, because they probably were true loves and they would end up together because they were heroes, and he was just a villain. Even though he could be more for her, he would gladly _die_ if dying entailed that he would be remembered as a hero, he would do just about _anything _for her. He just, he would not be able to live seeing her with Neal, he would be happy for her because she was happy but inside his heart would be broken, because she had the power to control him, even if she just did not see it yet.

She had the power to take all the broken pieces of his heart and shatter them beyond repair. But, she could also rebuild him, fix him and fill him in and make him happier than he could ever dream to be. She was his potential savior or his potential destroyer and he would let her be both.

Yet he could not live without her. Could not refuse himself at least just one sight of his beautiful blonde siren each day, could not help counting the moments when he could perhaps arrange a "chance" encounter with her on the street. Hell, he could not help making her jealous, see that little flicker of hurt in her eyes when he even talked about another girl. But most importantly, he could not live without talking to the one woman, the one _person_ in his life, in all the _realms_ that understood him on such a deep level that it stunned even him.

She had gone through worse than he had and come out better and he admired her so _goddamn_ much that it was impossible for him to comprehend how his heart could even hold the _depth_ of what he felt for her. She understood his utter loneliness, his desire to be loved and she made him feel like even the dark, twisted, broken Captain Hook could change. And he had, because of her. She could comfort him in his moments of distress, when he felt as though he had lost himself and been consumed by those dark forces that had haunted him for so long until he met her.

Just a quick sight of her, just a fleeting glance thrown his way, just a word spoken-even reluctantly-in his favor by her, made him happy.

Seeing her happy, seeing her smile, made him happy.

Oh, these were intoxicated thoughts tainted with the influence of hope and love.

But it was his undisclosed, hidden dream, one day, that maybe he could save her the way she saved him.

There was a deep and profound longing in him to stitch together the story of her past, to ensure that he could be a salve to her wounds and the cause of her happiness. He longed to fix her and to mend her heart and to understand her.

But most importantly, he wanted her to know that she was _special_.

That, when everything and everyone else fell away, he would always find her and he would always be there for her no matter the circumstances-because he _loved _her.


End file.
